


I and Thou

by puppyblue



Category: Prey (Video Game 2017)
Genre: (and aliens), Ableism, Gen, Identity Issues, Memory Loss, Other, Shapeshifting, Telepathy, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Together They Fight Crime, Typhon!Morgan, all science abandon ye who enter here, all those nifty alien powers, and no actual science, human!morgan, very little plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-28
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2019-02-08 07:22:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12859632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puppyblue/pseuds/puppyblue
Summary: In which there are two Morgans, one impending invasion, and zero cups of actual coffee.





	1. this dream

Morgan jolted upright, scrabbling at the bedsheets as his chest constricted in pure _fear_. The room was dark, pitch black, _too dark_ and he threw himself out of bed towards the nearest lamp, tripping on his blankets and slapping at the switch until finally it turned on, half blinding him. He pressed hurriedly up against the nearest wall and searched the cabin, squinting against the light.

The room was empty.

He swallowed, his dry throat clicking as he braced his hands against his knees and gasped for air, trying to calm his racing pulse. It was a dream again, just a dream—there was really no reason for all of _this_.

 _But it always seems so real when he’s staring out into the endless dark and maybe he can’t see it, but he can_ ** _feel_** _it—_

He pushed himself up and padded over to the bathroom, catching his bare toes on the edge of his rug as he went. His hair was hopeless in the mirror, sticking up in all directions, and the shadows under his eyes looked painted on in the harsh light. He scowled at his reflection, clenching his jaw and trying to smooth away the lingering echoes of panic in his expression.

It didn’t really work.

He bent over the sink, tapping the faucet and splashing a few handfuls of cold water over his face. Then he braced his hands on the cold porcelain sides and stayed there for a few moments, eyes closed as he breathed through his open mouth and let the water drip off.

_In two three, out two three, in two three, out two three. It’s just a dream, Morgan. Relax._

He looked back up at his reflection and saw someone standing behind him.

He whirled around with a half-strangled shout, fear crashing back over him in an icy wave. He had a canister of soap in his hand without a thought, raised over his head to throw as he braced himself—

His swing stopped before it truly began and he fumbled the canister, nearly dropping it. There was no one behind him, either in the bathroom or the bedroom beyond. The rooms were empty. Again.

_God, I’m going crazy._

But then, he'd been feeling that way for weeks—hard not to, really, on a space station he couldn't remember with people he didn't know calling him by name as he tried to figure out which turns to take.

He'd read the briefings, of course, the files compiled to bring him up to speed after the Neuromod removal, so intellectually, he knew what he was doing here. But words couldn't replace actual memory. He was floundering, misplaced, plucked out of one world and thrust into another—and one that he didn't much like.

And worse, he knew he wouldn't have time to adapt and settle in. As soon as the next tests came around, he'd forget all over again.

But he'd consented; the files had said. He'd agreed to this, _asked_ for it even knowing what it would cost. He'd have known when he'd started to expect the confusion and frustration, the headaches and shaking. Established side effects: of course he'd have known. 

And while nightmares and hallucinations _weren't_  considered common side effects of Neuromod removal, he doubted anyone had cycled them quite as often as he had recently. There were bound to be some unexpected results.

He was shaken, that was all. Not sleeping well and conjuring up bogeymen in his head as his mind tried to attribute his disquiet to something, anything. There was really nothing to worry about. Certainly nothing he needed to bother his brother with. He’d probably just end up doing this all again after the next tests anyway.

At least he hadn’t woken Alex with the noise. He could only imagine what he looked like, sleep-rumpled and half crazed, menacing an empty room with a bottle of soap.

He huffed, laughter without any humor, and laid the soap carefully back on the edge of the sink with a very soft _clink_.

After a quick second of indecision, he turned off the bathroom light and padded back into the bedroom. He left the bed alone though, and flicked the overhead lights on instead.

His workbench waited, strewn with its usual organized chaos of spare parts and scrap metal. And underneath, neatly concealed from sight behind boxes and books, the bare skeleton of an Operator’s chassis trailing half-connected wires. He settled into his chair and pulled it out again, reaching for the tools he needed.  

Might as well get some work done. He already knew he wasn’t going to be sleeping any more that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No idea where this is really going, but I have six chapters written and the Prey page is so quiet. So I'll post and hope I end up finishing it.


	2. at the seams

No, Morgan decided later that week. He was definitely going crazy.

He knew what Alex and Dr. Kohl would probably say. Words like _paranoia_ and _stress_ and there would probably be long looks and sympathetic advice and little white pills that he didn’t want to take. Maybe there was even some truth to it, some necessity—couldn’t have someone in his position going off the rails in public. But he still couldn’t make himself walk into it willingly.

So he wrote banal observations in his mandatory journal, and prodded half-heartedly at his own small projects, and did his best to hide the fact that his nightmares weren’t constraining themselves to the dark hours anymore.

It wasn’t even the itching feeling of being watched. He was used to that—there was always _someone_ watching him, after all, and usually he could even see them in return. And it wasn’t the little things either—the echo of footsteps behind him, or the way things seemed to move in his cabin while he was elsewhere. The hallways echoed every noise, and he’d be the first to admit that his memory wasn’t _quite_ what it used to be.

It was the fact that he kept _seeing_ someone out of the corner of his eye—a glimpse, a flash, a shadow—and he’d turn around and find…nothing.

In the hallway, perhaps it was explainable—workers passing by too quickly for him to catch, or light reflecting oddly off metal, or even just an operator drifting by. But in his office? The elevator? A _supply closet_? No.

But he couldn’t exactly research the causes and treatment of visual hallucinations, could he? He wasn’t naïve—every move he made was being closely monitored and research like that would throw up a small army of red flags.

As it should, he reminded himself grimly. And he tried, for the fifth time that day, to steel himself into walking over to Dr. Kohl's office. He couldn’t just stick his head in the sand and wish it all away. Talking to his doctor was necessary. Responsible.

And just the though of it locked him up with resentment. Inexplicable, with no obvious cause that he could see, but there it was. He couldn’t do it.

He left his office and meandered down to the lobby instead, casting an ambivalent look at the door to the Trauma Center as he passed. It was the middle of the day shift and the lobby held groups of workers in brightly colored uniforms bustling from place to place. Busy. Useful.

He settled into a comfortable seat at the far end, looking out on the sea of stars, and tried not to let his empty hands bother him. Without his memories, his capacity to help was limited, and his brother at least respected him enough not to fill his days with busywork. His contributions would come later, in the tests; there was no point to any sort of moping.

“Morgan.” One of the employees, engineering by his uniform, nodded and smiled at him as he passed. Morgan smiled back, pathetically grateful that he hadn’t stopped to chat. He had no idea who the man was.

With a lack of other work to do, it was surprisingly simple to settle in and people watch, once he’d grabbed a drink from the vending machines to fiddle with. There weren't an overabundance of people passing by—the arboretum was better for down time—but it kept him occupied for a while.

Time seemed to slip by, tranquil in the cool, recycled air as the room slowly emptied, and he’d lost track of how long he’d been sitting there by the time the sound of his name pulled him out of it.

“…that Morgan?” Quiet, not actually meant for him. It wasn’t a voice he recognized, but then, these days he was more surprised when it was.

“Think so.” Male this time, somewhere behind him. “...seen him out here in a while, not...”

“Of course he…down in Psychotronics?”

Morgan frowned and tipped his head just a little, listening more intently as the voices began to move further away.

“…not the lead anymore, they said. Got him working on something else.”

“Bet Nati's happy about that.”

“Yeah. I mean, Morgan’s not so bad, but if Alex…”

They faded into murmurs and he relaxed back into his seat, chewing at his cheek as he thought.

He’d read about Psychotronics, of course, a quick overview that he’d gotten for all the departments. Their research department, the driving force behind the development of the Neuromods—and the place he’d done most of his early work on Talos I, back when _Director of Research_ had been his job and not just a title.

He hadn’t been down to see it, on Alex’s request.

“It’d be a distraction for them, Morgan.” He’d said, quite reasonably at the time. “And they’ll have questions you can’t answer.”

 _And you’ll just forget it all again, anyway_ , was the implication, heavy beneath the words.

Morgan hadn’t given it much thought—without memories, he really wouldn’t be of any use there. Now, though, curiosity was starting to creep in, and perhaps just a smidgeon of suspicion. Was Alex hiding something from him? A conflict, perhaps? And what exactly _had_ they told everyone about him?

He glanced around, still a bit uncertain despite the map of Talos I he’d studied, until he finally remembered that the entrance to Psychotronics was behind him. He twisted in his seat to examine it—it was in keeping with the rest of the station design, in most respects. Except, of course, for the almost subtle security doors, and the dozing employee at the desk inside who no doubt had the ability to lock them in an instant.

Maybe not so unusual, considering the confidential nature of the research, but it was the only department to have such protection before one even got to the _entrance_.

His curiosity peaked a little higher, Morgan shifted to standing, flicking his half-finished can of green tea into a bin as he passed. He found his heart beating faster as he strolled towards the entrance. He evened out his breathing, irritated; he wasn’t doing anything _wrong_. He was just going to chat with the guard, maybe take a very quick peek in the department itself—

A hand fell onto his shoulder.

The touch was quick, but firm—heavy enough to tug him to a stop, almost enough to pull him back a step before the other person let go. He turned around with indignation on his lips—

And found no one behind him.

He froze. Cold dread latched claws into his spine and he glanced from side to side, wild, desperate. The closest people to him were two employees sitting and chatting at the scattering of tables he'd just left—nowhere near close enough. Goosebumps prickled sharp, chilling him as nausea rose and roiled in his gut.

He swallowed against the bitter, choking lump it formed at the base of his throat and struggled to keep his breathing quiet. He wouldn’t react. Even if tactile hallucinations had to be a _very bad sign_ , he wouldn't panic or yell or throw things. Not in the Lobby.

He turned reluctantly back towards Psychotronics; the watcher at the desk hadn't noticed him standing there staring into space, thankfully, but they'd have to glance up eventually. He took one more slow, cautious step forward and stopped.

It wasn’t even a shadow this time—it was a _feeling_ , an itch between his shoulder blades at the imagined proximity. A surety that there was someone _right behind him_. The back of his neck prickled, goosebumps rising as he imagined he could feel the slightest breath ghosting across his nape.

He refused to turn. What good would it do? Frustration prickled hot behind his eyes, and his hands curled into fists without his permission.

“What do you _want?_ ” He hissed into the air in front of him, and then snapped his teeth together, appalled. Was he so far gone? He _knew_ it wasn’t real, and here he was talking to nothing anyway.

 _Right_ , he decided grimly, and he steeled himself to turn around. Forget about Psychotronics; he would march himself straight upstairs and talk to Dr. Kohl. Unpleasant, undignified, but certainly less so than ending up as some shivering wreck hiding in a corner as his mind finished turning on itself.

But as he shifted back a foot to do just that, something...tugged on the pocket of his uniform. Quick again, there and gone—a shift at his hip, a slide of pressure against his thigh, and then a sudden weight.

Something had just been dropped into his pocket.

Slowly, incredulously, he pressed a hand against his leg; there was a solid, rectangular lump that he was quite certain had not been there before, if he could trust his senses even that far. He glanced behind himself once more, unsurprised to find only empty air yet again. There were a few employees walking by from the stairs or the elevator, but no one was paying him any mind.

He slipped his fingers into his pocket and pulled out a Transcribe.

It wasn't his—he reached into his _other_ pocket to make sure and found it easily enough. Side-by-side, his was clearly newer; it had probably been replaced often if he misplaced them between tests. He only kept appointments on it now; his computer was safer for anything personal. On an impulse, he thumbed on the mystery Transcribe and checked it—audio files.

He stared at them for a few seconds longer. Then he frowned and shoved his own Transcribe back into his pocket.

"Excuse me." He said, taking a few long steps forwards so that he was standing in the doorway to Psychotronics. The watcher jerked upright out of her doze and wiped at the side of her mouth, then straightened up even further when she caught sight of him, looking horrified. He waggled the Transcribe at her before she could speak, his heart beating too fast. "I found this just outside. It's not yours, is it?"

She leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. Then she fumbled beneath the desk. "No, can't be, Dr. Yu. I have mine right here."

She lifted her Transcribe up for inspection and he had to clench his teeth to stop a sigh of bone-deep _relief_ from escaping. Perhaps she took his expression for something more negative, though, because she hastened to continue. "If there's no name attached to that one, I can take it to the Lost and Found after my shift if you like, sir."

"No need. I'll take it myself." Not that he had any idea where the Lost and Found was—or that they'd even had one—but as he'd hoped, she just nodded.

He made it to the elevators as another small gaggle of employees disembarked, managing to slip in and hit the button for the Arboretum before anyone else could join him. Then he collapsed back into a seat as it began to move and stared at the Transcribe again, running his thumb along the top of it to feel each bump and groove.

Someone else could see it. Someone else could see it and that meant it was _real_. He tightened his grip.

So, how exactly had it gotten into his pocket?

* * *

 

His cabin was warm and dim and quiet, and the mystery was only growing. Because the audio files were _his_. Or they were in his voice, at least.

He couldn’t remember making them.

A few he’d even heard before, the personnel notes on his suite computer. But who had had access? And why bother copying them?

And the others, well...

Clearly his stress and paranoia were not new developments.

He paced restlessly across the carpet, occasionally pausing to prod the Transcribe onto the next piece. None of the recordings seemed to be sequential, and some of them were actively contradictory to each other, but most did seem to follow a theme. Of a sort. 

_“Once things get as bad as I think they already are, your only option is to escape—”_

_“—dislikes you. Dislikes Alex more. Need to find out why—"_

_“—It also means I don’t know if I can trust my own brother. Alex won’t like—”_

_“—You left yourself a message. Do you want to hear—”_

_“—too late to stick our heads in the sand._ _You know what to do.”_

When the log finally finished its run and the Transcribe clicked off, he didn't reach to replay it. ‘ _You know what to do,’_ but he really, really didn’t, and none of this was helping his impression of growing insanity.

Perhaps he’d known something when he’d made these recordings that he couldn’t remember now, but the end result was still that they sounded like so many paranoid ramblings. Typhon? Escape pods? Leave the station, save the station; you asked for this, but don’t trust anyone; and what in the _hell_ was going on down in Psychotronics?

He stared at the hidden Operator still stashed under his workbench; only the latest in a line of many, by the sound of things, as his memory reset and he ran and reran through the same cycles. The whole collection was frantic, disjointed, and none of it was helping him now, not at all.

What a mess.

He stopped his pacing and rubbed at his eyes. Just as quickly, he raised his head and glanced around the room again, his spine prickling once more with wariness. Everything was exactly as it should have been, exactly where he'd left it this time. The air was still and quiet, ringing just a little in his ears as the last echoes faded.

There were no shadows. No flickers or touches or movement. But he didn't _feel_ alone, and while even yesterday he'd have reluctantly put it down to his growing mental instabilities, right now...

Well. _Someone_ had slipped that Transcribe into his pocket.

"All right." He said, and tried not to wince at the inescapable awkwardness of speaking to nothing, but air. "Let’s try again. What do you want?"

Nothing. An empty room. He gritted his teeth, frustration and that sickening, virulent fear bubbling right back up in his chest.

"I _know_ you're there." He nearly snarled, and he could hear the strain in his own voice, cracking under the weight of _please, please, just—_ "You've made that very clear. So stop playing games and just _talk to me_."

He glared at the damnably still room around him, the scattered books and operator parts, swallowing against the rising of his heartbeat as one second passed, then two.

And then...something moved.

That same flicker of shadow out of the corner of his eye, but _this_ time, when he startled and twisted, trying to catch it in time, it didn't disappear back into nothingness. It stayed, solidified into an actual silhouette of someone moving out of the unlit dimness of the bathroom—

(—he'd checked in there, he'd _checked_ and there'd been no one in there, he looked over the whole suite whenever he came in now like a child searching for monsters in the closet before bed—)

—and maybe he should have been relieved and furious, and absolutely bursting with questions, because _someone was there_ , but before he could even think about a reaction, the intruder had stepped out into the light and—

"Hello, Morgan."

—and he was looking at _himself_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no beta for this, so pretty please share any criticisms/suggestions that come to mind :)


	3. the panic

“Tough day, right?” It said, dry like a joke, mouth curling up into not quite a smile.

It was like looking into a mirror. As though a contrary reflection had escaped the bathroom glass and decided to wander his rooms like a stray cat. An immaculate copy: the faint curl of his hair, the hollow of his cheeks, even the scuffs and signs of wear on his Transtar suit.

It might have been fascinating, had it not been quite so horrifying.

His reflection tilted its head, looked him over in return, eyes large and dark and not blinking. "Morgan. Calm down."

Had he worsened that quickly? But no—the woman had seen that Transcribe as well. He hadn't made that up. Unless...it had been his voice, hadn't it? Maybe he'd taken a second Transcribe, made the recordings, and then...forgotten? But why make them in the first place? Why say any of that?

"Morgan."

It had gotten closer without him noticing. It looked solid enough—and then it reached out, fingers curling over the racing pulse point in his wrist, and his skin prickled, following the oh-so-real sensation across the arm of his suit.

Tactile hallucinations. Right. Had to be mental deterioration of some sort. He'd meant to see Dr. Kohl and then...created this whole scenario to distract himself, perhaps? A too-solid manifestation of his own reluctance. But when had he made the Transcribe? And how had he missed it in his pocket the whole time?

"This is why I didn't talk to you." His reflection sighed, breath strange-cold and ghosting past his cheekbones. "I knew I should have stayed away."

"You're not real." He said, and then bit his own tongue, _hard_. Why was he still _talking to it_ if it wasn't real? It smiled a little, humorless, like it knew what he was thinking—he shivered at the resemblance.

"You've been dreaming again." It murmured, soft in the still air. Had he ever spoken that softly? "It's been worse lately, hasn't it?"

"No." He lied immediately, contrary, and then gave up any pretense of sanity. "You only know that because you're _in my head_. How would you, otherwise?"

"It’s a cycle." It said, as though he should understand that. "I remember—"

It stopped and shook its head, mouth turning down just slightly at the corners like it hadn't meant to say that. It wasn't quite a perfect reflection, he found, if he looked a bit closer. Its face was a little too still, too smooth. Just a little bit _off_ , an itch in the back of his mind that had him running his eyes over it once and again, looking for the discrepancy.

"You wouldn't believe anything I told you right now anyway, would you?" It asked, though the question sounded mostly rhetorical.

It released his wrist and stepped back, giving him space. His pulse hadn't slowed at all, he noticed as he reached to massage his wrist with his other hand. If anything, it had quickened further. The natural reaction to a perceived threat, even an imaginary one, he supposed. Prey instinct.

"Of course not." He said, and tried to make his voice as authoritative as he could: to convince himself. "You're not _real_. I shouldn't even be here. I should be—"

"Talking to Dr. Kohl?" It drawled, or nearly: his own voice in sarcasm or disbelief and he gritted his teeth. "To Alex? Telling them everything that's gone wrong with you so they can make it all better? So why haven't you?"

The reflection had sharpened somehow, the shadows of its face deepening. The hair on the back of his neck slowly rose. He opened his mouth to answer and found his voice stuck in his throat.

"You know what would happen." It turned away and paced to the windows. Stalked, really—there was something far too predatory in the motion. "You don't remember, but you _know_. Draw too much attention, make too much _noise_ , and they'll find a way to keep you quiet. The simulation lab's already set up so nicely for it, after all."

His stomach clenched and he swallowed, too loud. "That isn't—"

"You know exactly what Alex is capable of." It cut him off, refused him even that falsest pretense of denial. "You wouldn't be afraid, otherwise."

Morgan reached up and clenched his hand in the back of his hair, letting the sting ground him as he closed his eyes, wishing he could just...wake up, and write the whole week off as another dream. This wasn't the way hallucinations were supposed to behave, was it? But then, what did he know about such things?

He opened his eyes again and breathed out the bitterness of finding it still standing there, staring out at the starlight.

"What do you want?" He asked for the third time, and this time it was closer to a plea than anything else.

He couldn't go on like this.

The hallucination turned its head, eyes glittering black in reflection. "We've already established that you won't believe a word I say, haven't we?"

Morgan opened his mouth and then shut it again, because that still held. It was all in his mind, after all, and clearly his mind was ripping open at the seams.

"You need proof first." It said, suddenly thoughtful, and turned further, side on. "Solid evidence."

"Evidence of what?" He asked in spite of himself, and then pulled back. "How would... _evidence_ from you be any different than words? If I can hallucinate holding a Transcribe—"

"You know that's not a hallucination. You tested it yourself."

"—forget _making_ a transcribe, then." He soldiered on, mentally adding another tic in favor of _hallucination_. How else would it know what he'd asked the guard? ""It could all just be—"

"Some long, complicated game you decided to play with yourself?" It sighed at him. "I know how stubborn you are, but really, Morgan. Why would _any_ version of you want to do something like—"

"Well, I don't _know_ , do I?" And suddenly he was near snarling without meaning to, without even _wanting_ to, acid in his chest and on his tongue. "Because I can't _remember_ , so how am I supposed to know what I _thought_ , what tests I took, what they stuck into my brain _this_ _time_ —"

" _Morgan_. Stop." It was back in front of him again. He had seen it move this time, he _had_ , but it had flickered in his eyes and his mind like a cobra strike, lightening-fast and _wrong_ even as a solid hand gripped the back of his neck. "Breathe."

And he wasn't breathing, he found; he was choking on the red-hot searing of his chest because there was so _much_ he didn't know now, and he _hated_ not knowing, and the worst of was he had only himself to blame. Because he'd given Alex permission, hadn’t he, Alex and the scientists, and there was no reason or rule to stop them from taking it.

"It's all right." His reflection said, quiet, so quiet. Barely audible. Like it didn't believe the words itself. He snorted.

"No. It isn't." He tore himself away, stumbled a few steps backward and collapsed to sit on the bed. It let him go, watching him carefully. The darkness in its eyes wasn't a reflection, he noted dully. He couldn't find white in its scleras anymore.

"Maybe not." It admitted. "But I'm trying to change that."

He didn't bother answering it this time. He braced his elbows, put his face in his hands, and he breathed until the breath warmed in his palms, trying to thaw the cold, hard knot of misery that was twisting itself ever larger in his gut.

Fingers touched his knee and he jerked, instinctive. They drew back; he looked up and found his double crouched in front of him, balancing easily on the balls of its feet.

"Psychotronics," it said, and he laughed in spite of himself.

"That's where I was _going_." He said, almost a complaint. _(Yes, really Morgan, why can't your hallucinations be more considerate?)_ "Why did you stop me, then?"

"And what would have happened if you hadn't liked what you'd found? If you'd kicked up a fuss? Though I'm still assuming the personality drift has progressed enough for it to actually bother you." Despite the harsh words, there was no shaprness beneath; the predatory unreality had been replaced with a face he knew from the mirror each morning. Tired. Hunted. "Noise, Morgan. You'd be in Kohl's office in an hour or two and at best wake up reset in the morning."

_Reset_. Like he was an unruly computer, a misbehaving piece of equipment. _(And wasn't that what he was, honestly, wasn't that what he had made himself—?)_

"And you think whatever I find in Psychotronics will...what?"

"Give you more questions than answers, knowing you." It said, wry and almost affectionate. His skin shivered, not quite crawling; there was something too knowing, too intimate in those words. "But it will give you the big picture you need. Show you that your mind's perfectly fine. Unless you think you could have rearranged the whole station so you could wander through it hallucinating without anyone noticing anything wrong."

And that was...well, true enough. Though, hadn't he wanted to avoid the indignity of being dragged to the doctor's and drugged like a lunatic? Was the risk worth the small, tiny, _miniscule_ chance that...well, that this...

"We both know you're going to go. Can't abide a mystery." said his reflection, and had it sounded smug he might have refused in plain spite. It didn't, though; it sounded...sad. "Don't let them see it bother you, Morgan. Get in and get out. Don't make a scene."

_(—if you hadn't liked what you'd found_ it had said, like that was a certainty more than a possibility, and there was foreboding of a different sort now, uncertain and sticky slow, contradictory to the interest that reared its reluctant head. What was so important about Psychotronics that his own mind was urging him towards it so fiercely, even without any memories at all?)

"Right." He said, and forced himself not to ask, wiped his trembling hands on his legs and stood. "Fine. Psychotronics. Let's get this over with."

His reflection stood and watched him go, dark eyes following him as he reached the door and stopped. His hand brushed the doorknob—careful, feather-light, like trying to catch a soap bubble without popping it.

Like opening the room would burst _this_ little bubble of strangeness and clarity that had finally formed out of the shadows, leaving him with nothing more than the whispers and flickers and nightmares once more. Not that full-on hallucinations could truly be considered preferable, but he was so, so tired of walking that knife's edge of panic. 

He glanced back.

The other Morgan blinked once as their eyes met and then its head tilted again, like a dog hearing a high pitched noise. Slowly, it stepped back and sank onto the bed in the spot he had vacated, folding its legs up tailor style and resting its elbows on its knees.

"I'll be here when you get back." It said, settling in place like it could wait years if necessary. It should have felt like a threat, really, but he got more the sense that it was trying to be comforting.

It almost was.

He turned and left, before he could give in to the urge to hide in his closet and never come out. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting as I finish editing, but once I run out of pre-written chapters it'll probably slow down. like a lot. my PSA for the day.


	4. corrupt in the tides

There was a voice in his ear.

His _own_ voice, calling and coaxing in a low murmur, jarring and soothing at the same time. How long had it been there, speaking? He hadn’t been listening, hadn’t been sorting the words away from the ringing in his ears.

“Just— stop.”

_“Morgan—”_

“ _Don’t_ tell me to calm down.”

Silence. Not even the brush of breath across a microphone. Not like the choking gags of the volunteer as he’d struggled for his own breath around the black, oily tentacle—

He clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms. Curled his back against the wall, let the knobs of his spine grind into the metal. His lungs felt like ice.

That was for the best—the cold, the sharpness. It had kept him distant, calm as he’d strode past security checkpoints like he’d belonged there, even when he’d been forced to nick a ‘psychoscope’ from the nearby locker rooms. It had kept him frozen, as he’d watched the murder of a man by alien lifeforms proceed like routine.

It had kept him _rational_ , kept him biting his tongue to keep from lashing out like some base, cornered animal at the scientists as they’d welcomed him, as he’d peeked into computers and files, as he’d clawed anywhere, everywhere, for some semblance of denial against the scope of it all, against his own involvement—

He’d known the Neuromods that he’d tested had been extraordinary; of course he had. He’d felt the power, seen the effects.

But the scientists had grown cagey when he’d inquired after the research; he’d had plenty else to study at the time, and they’d still shown him scans of the neural mapping when he’d asked, the causes of the power at his fingertips. But when he’d inquired after the source of the discoveries, Alex had pulled him aside.

His brother was good at that. So reasonable as he’d described the difficult and highly classified nature of the research, the inefficiency of continually disturbing the scientists and researchers. The futility of it. The fact that, with everything he’d have to learn in order to understand, he’d get perhaps a quarter of the way through it and then forget it all in an instant as the next tests came through.

(He’d said he’d understood, in the end. He’d almost meant it. Alex had sounded like he’d been speaking from experience, past cycles, and what good was curiosity anymore, really, when he’d just lose all his answers over and over again?)

The Typhon weren't even the worst of it. Surprising, but not shocking, considering it all. The worst was that he hadn’t thought—he’d never considered that they would—

He glanced at the door, compulsive, paranoid. He’d walked carefully out of Psychotronics on numb autopilot, so cold all through and fiercely containing himself, until he’d made it to his office and locked himself in.

No one had followed him. He couldn’t stop himself from looking anyway.

Now a sigh, rasping though the connection. _“Well, you managed to keep your head down. Though I expect Alex will still be concerned, soon as he hears you went there.”_

True enough words. He’d obviously found the true reason Alex had warned him away from the department. And there was no denying that, if he chose to make himself too troublesome, Alex already had the perfect way to keep those secrets safe.

Though not safe enough, clearly.

“You knew about this.” He said. “You knew that I—”

He closed his mouth on the words, but the evidence was damning enough. He’d read the files; he knew what he’d done.

 _“You always were one to push the envelope. Pushed it a bit too far this time, you and Alex.”_ It said. Not accusing, either. Almost sympathetic. _“At least you’re disturbed by it. That’s improvement.”_

Improvement. At some point, this hadn't bothered him. Had he been a sociopath, before the Neuromod testing?

Maybe he'd just been able to justify it to himself well enough. He must have seen the continual loss of human life as acceptable collateral damage. Criminals finally giving back to the world or some equally flimsy excuse. _Personality drift_ , that was what his reflection had said before. He hadn’t realized just what that meant.

And even now, in the grip of horror, he could see the lure of it, the slippery slope he might have crept down. The knowledge to be gained, the barriers they could break—he’d already experienced first-hand the power of the Neuromods they’d developed.

But he thought of the man in the clear glass cage, choking to death on this source of possibility and discovery, and his stomach turned over again. No. Absolutely not. Not at this cost.

“How is this still happening?” He demanded. There was no knowing how trustworthy the voice in his ear truly was, but it had shown him more truth in the last few hours than anyone else on the station ever had. “Why hasn’t anyone done something? They can’t _all_ be all right with it.”

 _“They’re usually very careful about who gets to see these things. Remember, you’re a special case.”_ It was almost easy to forget that it was his own voice he was hearing, the longer it spoke. _“Psychotronics staff are carefully vetted and even then, their Neuromods are still removed on a cycle. Not nearly as strenuous as yours, but regularly, as a precaution.”_

Sensible. Infuriating, but sensible. It also meant that his… _reflection_ was uniquely well informed.

And he wasn’t stupid, no matter that he’d spent the last few days doubting his own mind. He’d skimmed the research. Telepathy. Mimics. He’d been sent down there for _proof_ , after all.

“And you? What are you, then?” He asked, forcing his hands to uncurl.

It huffed in his ear, almost a laugh. _“That’s…complicated.”_

The first real spark of anger, finally warming his insides. “Don’t—”

 _“I mean it.”_ It said, serious again. _“I’m still working that out for myself.”_

It sounded…tired, frustrated. Truthful, at least in the emotion, and Morgan loosened almost in spite of himself, that reluctant interest rearing its head again. “You are… _alien_ , though, aren’t you? Typhon. That’s what you sent me off to prove.”

 _“Yes. Or at least I was.”_ For the first time since this had started, it seemed uncertain. _“My memories aren’t what they should be either. And funnily enough, no one really wanted to give me straight answers.”_

Morgan stiffened, staring blankly at the wall as the problem became larger. “They’re experimenting on the typhon too? Not just the prisoners?”

_“I— No. Not yet, anyway. They haven’t had—”_

The door pinged—a polite request for entrance. Morgan almost jumped out of his skin, and turned to eye it warily.

 _“Better answer it.”_ The voice curled in his ears like smoke, back to a low, unobtrusive murmur. _“Locking yourself away doesn’t give the best impression of normality.”_

“As though _that’s_ my biggest problem right now.” He grumbled back, but he moved for the door anyway. The source of his wariness had changed radically since that morning, but he still couldn't afford to raise suspicions. Normality it was.

His assistant stood on the other side of the door—Chang, that was his name. A bright young man, efficient and quick to smile, from what little Morgan had seen of him so far. He looked rather anxious at the moment, though, shifting a little on his feet as he met Morgan’s eyes.

“I—sorry for the interruption, sir,” He said politely. “but you looked a bit…displeased earlier and I wanted to see if there’s anything I can help with.”

Ah—Morgan must have walked right by him without even noticing. God, he looked young, even if there couldn’t be more than five years or so between them. Morgan didn’t have it in him to snap.

“Thank you, but there isn’t.” He said, struggling to sound neither too distant nor too casual. And this was why he hated talking to people who’d known him before. “It’s…just been one of those days.”

A perfectly good noncommittal answer, he thought, and Chang smiled as though it was, an easy flash of teeth. “We all have them. Just let me know if there’s anything I _can_ do.”

Morgan nodded and watched the other man stride back to his desk for a second, before he slipped back inside and leaned against the wall next to the door.

 _“He’s fond of you, at least a little.”_ His reflection informed him with surety. _“If he had to choose between you or Alex, you could probably rely on him.”_

Morgan blinked, taken aback. “Is that likely?”

_“Do you think Alex is going to change his ways if you just ask him nicely?”_

He…hadn’t quite gotten that far yet. But certainly things couldn’t stay as they were, and just as certainly he had no real power to change them. He would have to pull on the only man he knew that did, and hope that Alex wasn't so far gone as to wipe his memory simply to keep him quiet. 

“I was the one that started this, wasn’t I? Or at least I encouraged it.” He folded his arms in front of his chest, weary. “I’ll stay calm. He’ll have less reason to worry if I'm not making a scene. Be more likely to hear me out. He must know this isn’t... _right._ ”

 _“As I understand it, you convinced him to work past his misgivings.”_ The voice was unaccusing, but he pressed his arms harder against his chest, guilt a sour bite against his ribs. _“And now that he’s started, do you really think he’s likely to stop? To admit defeat, even if it’s good sense?”_

And if there was one thing Alex hated, it was failure. Giving up, giving in. Morgan’s heart was starting to beat harder again, like he was staring down something dangerous. “I’m his brother. Might be some kicking and screaming along the way, but I can make him see sense eventually.”

 _“But you’ve changed, Morgan.”_ Something in that tone made his chest ache, made him press his palm to his sternum and breathe against the sting. _“ I see your personality drift as a good thing, considering, but Alex? Quite the opposite. And his definition of family and brotherhood is a little narrower than you might expect.”_

“And what would you know about it?” He snapped, years of reflex leaping in defense of his brother in spite of everything.

 _“Far more than you realize.”_ It said dryly. _“Far more than I should.”_

That drew him back. It was all said in his voice, after all. An alien, by its own admission, reflecting his face and echoing his speech, and there was nothing to say that the resemblance was only skin deep.

“I _need_ you to tell me everything.” He said, and tried to force every last shred of confidence he possessed back into his voice. “About you, about this station. And _don’t_ just tell me it’s complicated.”

It laughed in his ear, soft. It wasn’t a happy sound. _“All right. I’ll do my best. But not like this—come back to your cabin. Please. I hate talking this way.”_

“Why?” He asked, curiosity more than suspicion.

 _“Typhon don’t have a language, as such. You’d have seen that in the notes. But we do have…other methods.”_ He could almost hear a shrug as it gave up trying to explain. _“I might show you some when you get here.”_

“Well, that’s not ominous.” He said, but he couldn’t stop the smallest smile from twitching at his lips. He straightened up and exited the office, nodding to Chang as he walked.  

 _“You’ll be glad of it later.”_ Was the reply, which wasn’t reassuring at all until it added. _“I’m not here to hurt you, Morgan. If you’re going to believe anything, believe that.”_

And they didn’t have enough between them yet for trust, but something thawed further inside of him all the same. This was the most he’d spoken with anyone in weeks without the careful watchfulness of the scientists or the song and dance of his missing memories. This was the most information he’d been trusted with in…well, longer than he knew, probably.

Damn it, he wanted to believe it, alien or no.

“Well, we’ll see.” He sighed, and set his sights for the elevator.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> who decided that continual murder was a stable acceptable business model? really i want to know.


	5. a little bit stranger

Any watchers had to be rather worried, Morgan thought with some black amusement as he slipped into the grav shaft to his suite. He’d zigzagged across quite a bit of the station just in the morning hours and here he was again, back at his rooms.

Well, it was a bit too late to do anything about it now.

He stopped before the door to his room for a moment, surprised at himself. His situation had, arguably, only worsened. A weakness of the mind maybe could have been managed with careful counseling and medication. The mess he found himself in now was immensely more complex.

And yet, despite the shock and guilt of his discoveries, he felt _better_. More focused, more determined: perhaps he was only heading further into trouble, but his mind felt like his own again, or as close as it could get. Anything else, he could deal with as it came.

Bolstered by the thought, he keyed open the door and stepped inside.

The reflection— the alien was still there. It had moved, though, shifting from the bed to the floor at the foot of it. It had dragged out the Operator’s chassis and was poking through the insides with a vague interest. It looked up as he walked in.  
  
“You didn't include an escape plan on this one?” It asked, and he fought against the prickle of his spine that insisted he did not want to be there.  
  
“Well, I was a little underinformed when I started it.” He said, careful, and let the door shut behind him. After a second’s thought, he locked it. “It was only to escape the simulation, not...anything else. Though by the logs you gave me, I’ve already got a few prepared for the Typhon anyway.”  
  
"There were some.” It said, almost apologetic, “Your brother deactivated most of them, but two are still active.”  
  
That sentence only added more questions, really. How long had this cycle been going on for? How many of these damn Operators had he made without realizing? And Alex--

"I'll rework this one." He said, and decided against asking at all. After a moment’s pause, watching it, he paced past the bed to his workstation. He hooked the closest high stool there and sat, tucking his feet up in the rungs: close enough to converse, but not too close.

“All right.” He said. “I’m here, so talk.”

The alien watched him, a small crinkle between its eyebrows ( _his_ eyebrows). Then it stood and curled back down to sit cross-legged on the bed again.

He liked to think that he could now discern some aspect of otherness in its demeanor, but perhaps his mind was now just trying to superimpose the new information on its movements. It still appeared disturbingly human overall—even its eyes playing along now, with a clear delineation between iris and sclera.

“We could talk,” It agreed, “but words are a poor replacement for memory. I _could_ try to show you, if you’d rather.”

“Show me what?”

“The answers you’re looking for.” It shrugged just slightly. “You still have your typhon Neuromods active from your last test, don’t you?”  

He swallowed against his immediate reaction, the crawling at the base of his neck as he thought of what he might have in his head. “What are you planning to do?”

“It depends on what you’re capable of.” It said, with an acknowledging twist of its mouth at the vagueness. "You saw the Coral while you were down there?"  
  
He had, briefly—a bright spot of unexpected, glimmering beauty—but he'd passed by the containment quickly, trying his best to avoid notice.  
  
"I told you typhon don’t have a language—we don’t need one. The Coral acts as...I suppose neural network is still the closest description, if not entirely complete." His double unfolded, shifting to place its feet flat on the floor, jaw working as though finding the rights words was a struggle. "It’s…a pathway of thoughts. A store of memories. Typhon aren't quite a hive mind, but we are heavily interconnected."  
  
The implications were numerous and fascinating, and had Morgan been in any other situation, he was sure he’d have dived into the research with immeasurable enthusiasm. As it was, though… “But the Neuromods—”

“All Neuromods contain typhon material to some degree, of course, but it’s a rather miniscule amount. The difference here is in the neural mapping.” The other being leaned forward, eyes alight with something like fascination. “That psychoscope of yours—”

“Mine?”

“Missed that bit, did you? You created it back when you first arrived on the station: quite a breakthrough for all involved.” Morgan shifted warily; that didn’t sound entirely like a good thing. “After all, you could hardly scan a typhon for a Neuromod the way you could a human.”

Which was obvious as he considered it, the sheer violence of them enough to make the task difficult even without this new information. He pulled his stolen psychoscope off his belt, turning it over to examine more closely. “So it’s not actually scanning the typhon themselves, then? It’s… _sensing_ the Coral?”

“Their connection to the Coral, I think—the way each different subspecies links with it. Our version of the neural pathways the Neuromods need to work.” His reflection shrugged then. “As long as I’m correct, of course—I haven’t had time to study the psychoscope in detail, but the abilities those mods give you would suggest that I am.”

Right. Those.

He reached, wary, for that feeling that sat in the corner of his mind—ever-present, but rarely used, destructive as most of the power was. He hadn’t dared to try them outside of the controlled lab tests, but the temptation had still been there.

It came to him in an instant—the rush, the leap of his heart and sharpening of his senses. The being on the bed straightened, eyes wide and head tilting, and for a moment the air around it seemed almost to shimmer.

He let go again, breathing out shakily. He didn’t want to risk burning his room down because he made a mistake.

“Yes.” His double said, still staring at him intently. “I think this will work.”

“You want me to use the Coral?” Morgan said, _finally_ making the connection—he was so used to being ahead of the curve that this struggle to keep up was uniquely frustrating. “If I’ve copied those connections, if it’s affected enough of my brain—”

“You’re still human. A few Neuromods aren’t enough to change that.” It said immediately, firm and certain, and Morgan hadn’t even realized he’d started to tense until relief unknotted in his chest. “But with a little help, yes, I think you could make the link. Then I can show you exactly what you need.”

He should stop to consider—really, he should. Even if it was possible, there could be any number of unpleasant side effects: _actual_ damage to his brain, just when he’d been assured of his sanity again. And that wasn’t even considering that he was placing far too much trust in this being in front of him. He should insist on talking, and only that.

“What do you need me to do?” was what came out instead, because while he was smart enough to know it was a very bad idea, he also couldn’t deny the sheer _draw_ of it.

It was a chance like no other, one he might not get again: an opportunity to explore the workings of such an unfamiliar species from an extraordinary perspective. His memories might have been faulty, but he hadn’t changed _that_ much.

This was the sort of thing he lived for.

“Come here.” It told him, beckoning just slightly.

“How is that going to help?” He argued, but he slipped his feet off the rungs and rose even as he did so, tamping down with fierce control until his heart stopped beating quite so quickly.

“I don’t know that it will.” It said, very dry. He paused and it sighed. “I know it might seem like I know what I’m doing, Morgan, but I’m nearly as much in the dark as you are. I’ve been working mostly on instinct here.”

He drew breath to question that and it jerked its head, impatient. “Just let me try, and you can ask all you like if it doesn’t work.”

It stayed seated as he approached—an attempt to keep him calm, maybe, by giving him a height advantage. He had to admit it worked somewhat. He found it easier to draw even, to glance over the uncanny mirror of his own features as it turned to look up at him. It took his wrist, very lightly, and he allowed it.

“We might be reaching too far with this.” It murmured, and lifted a hand up slowly enough that he could have drawn back, settling fingers along the nape of his neck and a thumb behind his jaw. “But when has that ever stopped us? And if it’s the way I remember—”

 _Us?_ Morgan wanted to ask—

But the air was too heavy around him, thick and sticking in his lungs, resisting as he tried to gasp until his ribs ached from the effort of drawing it. That corner of his mind that he’d just put to rest woke right back up, his vision blurring and brightening as it shivered like a stroked cat.

There were colors around the being in front of him, a black too dark to see inside its eyes, a hundred shades of gold branching out from its sides and _reaching_ —

He— (he?) He was— his eyes were open, but he couldn’t see past it: too much, too bright, too many, until someone folded over him like a blanket, stifling the noise until he could breathe, and he ( _they)_ —

**_(Here, Morgan—)_ **

—were somewhere else entirely.

_“Good morning, Morgan. Today is Monday, March 15th, 2032.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all right, this is actually the last of the prewritten chapters, i got rid of the sixth on I had. so this is probably it for a little while.


End file.
